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HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 




HOMEY POEMS 

AND OTHERS 


BY 

SARAH A. CHANDLER 

w 



THE PROVIDENCE PRESS 
1923 




^ Copyright, 1923 
By Sarah A. Chandler 


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SNOW & FARNHAM CO. 
PRINTERS 
PROVIDENCE, R. I. 


HAY 23 73 


To My Son 

WILLIS E. CHANDLER 


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TABLE OF CONTENTS 


HOMEY POEMS 

Grandmother’s Company Cake. 7 

Sweet-Brier. 9 

Elizabeth’s Philosophy. II 

Selling the Old Things. 13 

The Little Home That’s Waiting. 16 

The Old Pepper-Box. 17 

Their Way. 19 

Father’s Squeaky Boots. 21 

Her Letters. 26 

Skim-Milk and Cream. 28 

The Old Songs. 30 

Just Oil. 32 

Longing. 34 

The Little Quirl on the Crust. 38 

To Lullaby-Town. 40 

As We Journey Along. 42 


The Kitchen Stove 


45 




















TABLE OF CONTENTS 


The Sisters. 47 

My Neighbor and 1. 49 

Comparison. 51 

The Steps. 53 

My Toad. 58 

A Slight Mistake. 59 

My Picture-Gallery. 60 

A Bit of Goldenrod. 63 

At Lilac Time. 64 

The Three Photographs. 65 

In the Firelight. 68 

Contentment. 69 


POEMS OF OCCASION 

Rhode Island's Independence Hall. 73 

Women's Clubs—Past, Present and Future. 78 

To George C. Simmons. 82 

Our Country. 85 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

A Memory of Havana. 91 

To the March Winds. 92 


Love's Quest 


93 























TABLE OF CONTENTS 


The Parish Churches of Bermuda. 94 

Common Things. 96 

The Rose and the Daisy. 98 

The Two Paths. 99 

Old Meeting-Houses of New England.100 

The Hour Between.104 

My Visitor.106 

A Sonnet.107 

With the Odor of a Flower.108 

Apart.110 

An Old Cemetery.Ill 

The Song of the Wind.114 

Two Points of View.115 

The Shower of the Leaves.116 

Easter Lilies.119 

The Inevitable.120 

Chicory .121 

December .123 

Moods .124 

Just Around the Bend.126 























HOMEY POEMS 
















































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HOMEY POEMS 


GRANDMOTHER'S COMPANY CAKE 

D O you know—I've no use for an angel-cake, 
Lady-finger or macaroon, 

Or any of the fussy, flummery things 
I've made since my honeymoon, 

And I long for a taste of some of the things 
My grandmother used to bake; 

Chief among which, was to me, at least, 

Her old-fashioned company cake* 

I can see it now on the pantry-shelf 
Turned upside down to cool: 

The minute 'twas baked, from the pan it came; 

That was my grandmother's rule* 

And ah! what an odor of fruit and spice 
As the pan from the oven she'd take; 

And wasn't it baked a beautiful brown— 

That old-fashioned company cake? 

And didn't we children impatiently wait 
For an invitation to tea? 

And did anything ever so tempting appear, 

Or taste quite so good to me? 

And did any of the mothers or uncles or aunts 
Seem more loath than the children, to take 
A second piece when 'twas passed around, 

Of Grandmother's company cake? 


7 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Ah! the years have been many; the dear ones, all 
From the old home nest have flown; 

And the spot made sacred by childish joys, 

To the stranger only, is known* 

But many a time, when an honored guest— 

Of viands rare I partake, 

I think with a sigh, of the good old days, 

And Grandmother's company cake* 


8 


HOMEY POEMS 


SWEET-BRIER 

J UST give me the bit o' sweet-brier, 

An' you can have all o' the rest; 

The pinks an' the lilies are pretty, 

But I, somehow, like this the best* 

I haven't seen a sprig o' sweet-brier 
For many and many a year, 

An' it sets me to thinkin'—an' dreamin'— 

Of scenes once familiar an' dear* 

There's the road, windin' round by the river; 

An' the old farm-house on the hill; 

The medders, all fresh with the clover, 

An' the swift turnin' wheel at the mill* 
There's the meetin'-house just round the comer, 
With its spire pointin' up to the sky, 

An' the tree-tops a-wavin' about it, 

An' the white clouds a-driftin' by* 

I can hear the robins a-twitterin' 

High up in the old elm-tree; 

I can hear the children's voices 
A-shoutin' in childish glee* 

I can hear the honey-bees bvzztn' 

As homeward at twilight they go, 

All laden with sweets from the hedges. 

Where the sweet-brier roses grow* 


9 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


I can see Matilda—a-standin' 

All dressed in her white wedding-gown; 
Her blue eyes a-sparklin' an* dancin'; 

Her cheeks like a thistle-burr's down* 

I can see the blushes come stealin' 

All over her face so fair, 

When I told her she was prettier an' sweeter 
Than the sweet-brier rose in her hair* 

But there—I'm only a-dreamin'— 

For the old place is miles away; 

An' my darlin' has long been dwellin' 

In the city of endless day* 

But I'll keep the bit o' sweet-brier, 

An' whenever I see it—'twill be 
Like livin' the old times over; 

A link—'twixt Matilda an' me* 


10 


HOMEY POEMS 


ELIZABETH'S PHILOSOPHY 

M Y Ma, she said to me one day, 
"Now 'Lizabeth my dear 
I wish you'd get about a bit. 

And not set mopin' here 
As if the best friend that ye had 
Was lyin' under ground; 

There's lots o' cleanin' to be done, 

An' I wish you'd fly around." 

“Why Ma!" said I, “'taint Natur' 
This time o' year to hurry; 

Things out o' doors ain't fumin' 

An' all stirred up with worry." 
An' then I opened wide the door 
To let the sunshine in, 

An' says to Ma, “Now you come here 
An' I'll prove I ain't a-jokin'." 

“Now just look out a bit an' see 
That green grass there a-growin', 
An' all them little sproutin' things 
A-peepin' up so knowin'. 

An' do you see them trees a-buddin' 
While the wind sings soft an' low? 
Why Ma!—they ain't a-hurryin'— 
They're takin' time—to grow." 


11 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


“All right”—says Ma, “but I guess old Natur' 
Does a little bit o' hurrying 
When a good smart blizzard comes up quick 
An* sets the snow to scurryin' 

An' the wind a-howlin' at the rate 
O' sixty miles an hour— 

Looks to me like workin' over time,”— 

An* then Ma shut the door. 

“Oh well”—said I, “that's Winter, 

When the year is old and gray; 

It's got to do some hurryin' 

'Cause 'taint got long to stay.” 

Then Ma—she kind o' hummed a tune, 

An' said this word or two; 

“Wa'l—guess when I was a gal like her,— 

Ma had the heft to do.” 


12 


HOMEY POEMS 


SELLING THE OLD THINGS 

4*T'D like to sell these old things off 
And furnish up with new; 

Pm tired of seeing them around, 

And Pd think that you'd be too*" 
These were the words my sister Ruth 
Surprised me with one day, 

As she gave a sidelong glance at me 
To see what I would say, 

I could not think she meant the words; 

'Though since her trip to town, 

Ruth seemed to have high notions 
And very oft would frown 
(When she thought I wasn't looking,) 
As she glanced about the place, 

And toss her head as though to say 
The rooms were a disgrace. 

Of course I had to answer her, 

And then I tried to smile; 

For Ruth had always had her way 
And it wouldn't be worth while 
To stir up wrath and discontent, 

When only just we two 
Were left of all the family-folk,— 

So what was I to do? 


13 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Yet my heart rebelled; my eyes were dim 
With tears I could not hide; 

It seemed that some unbidden guest 
Was standing by my side 
With hand outstretched, to wrest from me 
My friends of long ago; 

The silent friends—who'd shared with me 
My all of joy and woe. 

"Why Ruth!” I said, "you cannot mean— 
What! sell these treasured things? 

Why, think of all they mean to us; 

To each, some memory clings. 

When we were bom they welcomed us; 

They were left to you and me,— 

And they're worth a thousand times as much 
As modern things could be.” 

"There's the rocking-chair ma liked so well, 
In which she always sat; 

And the lady-image with the boy,— 

We surely can't sell that; 

The tall green vases on the shelf; 

The clock against the wall; 

Why Ruth!—if they should go away 
It wouldn't be home at all.” 

But Ruth just laughed, and said 'twas plain 
I hadn't a bit of style; 

"We'll sell them, every one,” said she, 

"And in a little while 


14 


HOMEY POEMS 


You'll wonder how I thought of it, 

And say 'twas very strange 
We hadn't decided long before 
To make so wise a change." 

So she sent a second-hand man up, 

And we sold them for a song,— 

The dear old things that father bought; 

That mother loved so long. 

And in their places, now I see 
Such pretty things 'tis true,— 

But I somehow can't get used to them 
No matter what I do. 

They seem like callers, just come in 
A little while to stay; 

While the home folks have stepped out a bit, 
But won't be long away. 

They're unfamiliar, stiff and prim; 

No answering chord have they 
To the longing feeling in my heart— 

For the old things—cast away. 


15 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE LITTLE HOME THAT'S WAITING 

T HERE'S a little home that's waiting; 

Awaiting you and me, 

It may be in the valley. 

Perhaps beside the sea. 

Or it may be in the city 

With its ceaseless ebb and flow; 

Or in some far-off country 

We've never dreamed to know. 

Although I've never seen you, 

And cannot tell your name; 

Nor when—nor where—I'll meet you, 

To me 'tis all the same. 

And every day—I'm dreaming 
Of the time that is to be; 

And the little home that's waiting, 
Awaiting you and me. 


16 


HOMEY POEMS 


THE OLD PEPPER-BOX 

T HE little tin box with the handle? 

Oh, that is a pepper-box, dear, 

You seldom see one like it nowadays; 

It did service for many a year. 

It belonged to Aunt Susan; and when she died,— 
Among other things 'twas given to me; 

That—was forty-four years ago this Fall 
I think—wait—now let me see* 

Yes—that is correct,—I thought I was right, 
Though it seems but yesterday's morn; 

Twas the year sister Marthy was married, 

And my little Josiah was born. 

Ah! many a time for a plaything 
Has he used this little old box; 

That accounts for its battered condition, 

For it's had some pretty hard knocks. 

If that little old box could but speak, my dear, 
What wonderful tales it could tell; 

Of fair young brides; of new bom babes; 

And of Death's grim call as well. 

Of bounteous plenty; of pinching want; 

Of laughter, and jest, and song; 

Of countless events, both happy and sad, 

That have strewn the years along. 


17 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


I always keep it a-standing 

Up there on that top-most shelf— 

With a lot of things that are seldom used, 

And that nobody wants but myself* 

'Twould look pretty shabby beside of the ones 
We use on the table to-day, 

But 'twas just the thing in Aunt Susan's time, 
And for her sake—I'll keep it alway* 


18 


HOMEY POEMS 


THEIR WAY 

T KNOW a lot of people, 

(So does every one no doubt) 

Who are always so peculiar 
They seem past finding out* 

Kind friends, good neighbors every one; 

Their place 'twere hard to fill; 

But I cannot understand them, 

And I guess I never will* 

Now this is what Pd told myself 
A hundred times or more; 

When, one day, I got to thinking 
(Strange I hadn't long before) 

That, after all, I was, perhaps, 

As much at fault as they, 

For Pd never recognized the fact 
That 'twas just—their way* 

My neighbor does her house-work 
In a way that makes me smile; 

She leaves undone the very things 
That seem to me worth while, 

And spends her time in doing 
A dozen things each day, 

That Pd think quite superfluous, 

But then, it's just—her way* 


19 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Some people bring us sunshine 
No matter what the weather; 

While others are so grouchy 
They're displeasing altogether. 

And yet, these last, have attributes 
'Twere worth while heed to pay; 
And overlook what we dislike, 

Though we deprecate—their way. 

If we could only understand 
That what people say and do 
Is much a matter of temperament, 
And of disposition too, 

We'd be less prone to criticise, 

And far more often say, 

“They're just the nicest kind of folks." 
And never mind—their way. 


20 


HOMEY POEMS 


FATHER'S SQUEAKY BOOTS 

I FOUND 'em in an attic-room, 

When rummagin' to-day 
'Mong a lot o' things o' Father's, 

That Mother'd packed away* 

'Tis strange that at the sight o' them 
So foolish I should be, 

When they was always such a trial 
To Mother an' to me* 

I've set 'em by his rocking-chair 
Where he took 'em off at night; 

An' I've felt so sort o' chirky-like 
An' happy at the sight: 

An' my mind seems brimmin' over 
With the thoughts that come to me 
'Bout Father's gettin' o' the boots, 

An' all their history* 

'Twas in the Spring he bought 'em, 

At the little country store, 

Where he traded off some apples 
(Mostly dried) an' a lot more 
O' things that when he sold 
He traded for our clothes, 

For in them days there wa'n't much cash, 
As everybody knows. 


21 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


I never saw so proud a man 
As Father was that day,— 

For he thought he'd got a bargain 
That nobody could gainsay* 

Seemed 's if he'd almost wear 'em out 
A-tryin' of 'em on, 

An' stampin' up and down to show 
How easy they went on* 

“Seem's if they're awful squeaky," 
Mother shouted in his ear, 

For Father'd grown so dreadful deaf 
'Twas hard for him to hear* 

"I can't hear 'em squeak," said Father, 

“An' I don't believe they do, 

An' if they did—I wouldn't mind, 

'Cause folks 'll know they're new*" 

“'Twouldn't do no harm to grease 'em," 
Mother ventured then to say; 

“Oh, well, I 'spose," said Father, 

“You women must have your way*" 
So he got the bottle o' Castor-Oil 
(We was out o' Sweet jest then) 

An' greased 'em good an' proper,— 
Then put 'em on again* 

But it didn't do a mite o' good,— 

They squeaked louder than before; 
An' Mother spent good part o' the day 
' A-moppin' up the floor 


22 


HOMEY POEMS 


Where Father'd walked from room to room 
A-huntin' up a file, 

He'd used to fix a door-latch with, 

That bothered all the while* 

When it come night,—he seemed to find 
So many things to do; 

First, down into the cellar, 

Then up to the garret too; 

Till Mother'd get so nervous 
A-readin' over what she'd read, 

An' there wa'n't no peace nor quiet 
Till 'twas time to go to bed* 

Mother set a store by Father, 

But sometimes when he'd say, 

He guessed he'd do some errands, 

But wouldn't be long away, 

She'd heave a sigh, an' somehow look 
So happy an' so bright, 

As if the little rest she'd get, 

Might set her nerves aright* 

/ 

When he was home he wore 'em, 

'Cause he wanted to break 'em in, 

An' of course he always wore 'em 
To church an' visitin'; 

An* I guess them boots was known t' nigh 
'Bout everybody'n town; 

An' some would look so tickled like, 

But more of 'em would frown* 


23 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


I guess the preacher was the one 
Who minded 'em the most; 

For he must a-known the point o' his 
Discourse was often lost, 

'Cause when Father passed the plate around. 
Folks couldn't help but smile 

A-hearin' o' them squeaky boots 
Goin' up an' down the aisle* 

I never heard much music 
'Cause'twasn't 'long my line; 

Jest the organ at the meetin'-house 
(That I guess wa'n't over fine;) 

The robins, an' the bluebirds; 

An' when peepin'-hylas came 

An' set up their nightly orgies 
Over an' over jest the same; 

Till, one day, a neighbor tame to call, 

An' before she left, said she, 

"Miss Johnson, wouldn't you like to go 
An' hear an opery?" 

I told her that I'd like to,— 

For 'tis lonesome now at home; 

Only me an' Nancy, (that's the cat) 

If nobody happens to come* 

So she took me to the city; 

Oh! the hall was big and bright; 

'Twas the prettiest sight I ever see,— 

The one I saw that night. 


24 


HOMEY POEMS 


Soon the orchestry an* singers 
All come a-filin' in, 

An' we waited for the music 
An' the singin' to begin* 

I don't know jest how long it was,— 

But they'd played an' sung awhile; 

When all at once,—seemed jest's if Father 
Was walkin' down the aisle; 

'Twas the squeakin' that a fiddler made 
A-drawin' of his bow; 

I didn't care to hear no more,— 

I was ready then to go* 

That's how I come to hunt 'em up, 

Though I hadn't thought o' them for years; 

That's why I sometimes smile a bit,— 

Then find myself in tears,— 

Rememberin' o' their funny squeak, 
Though 'twas raspin' too I know; 

An' all brought back to mind again 
By the squeak o' that fiddle bow* 


25 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


HER LETTERS 

S HOULD she chance to be a farmer's 
lass, 

And far away from home; 
Lonesome, maybe, just a trifle 

When the evening shadows come; 
Don't forget to send her letters 
That will drive the blues away* 

Tell her all about the happenings 
Of the farm-life, day by day* 

Tell her about the last Jones baby, 

If its eyes are blue or brown; 

What father brought the children 
When last he went to town; 

If the oriole's nest's still hanging 
From the elm-bough in the lane. 

If Miss Mirandy's gone this year 
To visit her sister Jane. 

What mother had to eat, the day 
The Parson came to tea; 

Who went home with Mary Smith 
The night of the husking-bee; 

If the apple-butter's sweeter 
Than that you made before, 

And what the young man's name is, 
Who's bought the village-store* 


26 


HOMEY POEMS 


Never mind about the penmanship,— 

A mis-spelled word or two, 

Or, if the grammar's out of trim, 

If it's the best that you can do* 

'Tis the thoughtfulness that prompts you 
These things to write about, 

That will help dispel her lonesomeness,— 
And bring the sunshine out* 


27 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


SKIM-MILK AND CREAM 

A BONNIER girl than Esther 

Ne'er a farmer's boy did wed; 

A girl among a thousand, 

So all the neighbors said* 

And she was strong and willing, 

And glad her place to take 
Beside the man of little means— 

Who had yet his way to make* 

As years went on—they prospered; 

And each with the other vied 
In providing for the future day, 

Lest misfortune should betide* 

Yet oft—to Esther's mind, there came 
A vision she scarce dared own; 

Of brighter, happier, sweeter things 
Her life of toil should crown. 

She baked and washed and ironed, 

And many a dollar saved, 

While the bank-account grew on apace,— 
And the road to wealth—was paved 
With hours of tedious labor 
And little of gladsome joy, 

For the patient woman—who years before 
Had wed the farmer boy. 


28 


HOMEY POEMS 


At last—when Esther passed away, 
'Twas Dora—who took her place; 

A fair young thing, with eyes of blue 
And airs of winsome grace. 

The neighbors, quite indignant were— 
And said, it was a shame 
So old a man as he—should choose 
So young a wife to claim. 

Dora—lived a life of luxury 

On what Esther—delved to earn; 
And I—somehow—fell to thinking 
That Life is like a chum; 

For some—it holds rich blessing; 

For others—an empty dream; 
Skim-milk was Esther's portion; 
While Dora's—was full cream. 


29 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE OLD SONGS 

I LIKE to hear The Old Songs,— 
They’re good enough for me; 
Seems’ if I never could get used 
To your new grand opery, 

That goes a pipin’ and a trillin’ 

Way up and down the scale, 

With words that’s hard to understand 
When your hearin’s begun to fail* 

I guess I’m gettin’ childish, 

A bit old-fashioned too, 

Because I like the simple tunes— 

That nobody now calls new* 

They—somehow—seem to carry me back 
To the days when I was young, 

And make me sort o’happy like 
Whenever I hear ’em sung* 

I like "The Suwanee River,” 

And "The Marchin’ Boys in Blue,” 

And that one—’bout Annie Laurie 
Who gave her promise true* 

There’s a deal o’ music in ’em, 

And ’twould make my old heart glad— 
To hear ’em sung, as once I did, 

When I was but a lad* 


30 


HOMEY POEMS 


I used to sing a bit myself 
When I was in the choir; 

But since my voice has got so weak. 

To try, Pve no desire. 

I used to like the hymn tunes 
The very best of all. 

The airs—Pve most forgotten now, 

But some of the words recall. 

“On Jordan's stormy banks I stand 
And cast a wistful eye;" 

And that one—'bout “Readin' your title clear 
To mansions in the sky." 

And then, there was another one— 

'Bout “Askin' not to stay;" 

I guess the very first line was— 

“I wouldn't live alway." 

The folks that used to sing 'em— 

Have left me, one by one; 

And I am drawin' very near 
To where the rest have gone. 

But when I die—and get to Heaven— 

Where the harps and angels be; 

I hope I'll hear The Old Songs 
Through all eternity. 


31 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


JUST OIL 

O UR old clock went out on a strike one day, 

Just simply refused to run; 

And when I tinkered and fussed with it, 

Ah, then—had my troubles begun* 

When a sudden thought—“how silly , 1 ” cried I, 

“Of course —'tis the one thing to do*” 

Then down went my pliers, screw-driver and all, 
And off for the oil-can I flew* 

Then away it went with its tickety-tock, 

Couldn't ask for a better or steadier clock, 

And all that was needed—its wheels to unlock, 

Was—just oil* 

'Twas the very same way with my sewing-machine, 
One day when I started to sew; 

Skipped stitches, and did the most wonderful stunts 
Till I, all out of patience, did grow* 

But, as soon as the oil-can I brought into play, 

Ah, then—'twas a different song; 

No longer my patience was tried with its pranks, 
For blithe as a bird it went humming along; 
Never went better—not even when new; 

Not a skip nor a hitch the afternoon through; 

And all it required—its best work to do, 

Was—just oil* 


32 


HOMEY POEMS 


There's many a friction creeps into the home, 

That makes life a burden to bear; 

That robs of the sweetness, contentment and love 
That each of its members should share. 

'Tis foolish to foster a spirit of strife; 

Rather, seek with a purpose serene, 

To banish the trouble, by treating the cause, 

As with the clock and the sewing-machine. 

Then note—with what smoothness the home wheels 
will run— 

From the blush of the mom to the set of the sun; 
For there's nothing more potent—when all's said 
and done, 

Than—just oil. 


33 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


LONGING 

I 'M longing,—just a-longing, 

To leave it all—and go 
Back to the farm, and see the folks 
For just a month or so* 

To leave this office, all these books 
A-staring me in the face— 

With hardly a bit of air a-stirring 
Anywhere about the place* 

Away from the city's rush and din, 

To the little country town 
That's nestling in the valley, 

With the green hills looking down. 

I want to steal in softly, 

As they're sitting down to tea; 
Maybe they might be thinking, 

And talking a bit 'bout me; 

I long to hear their shouts of joy, 

And see my mother's smile, 

While father says, he's glad I've come, 
And hopes I'll stay awhile* 

And when the meal is over— 

And the prayers have all been said,— 
To talk the town-folks over, 

Who's got married,—who is dead* 


34 


HOMEY POEMS 


In the morning* when it's light enough, 
I'll just peek out and see 
If the robin's nest is in the place 
Where it always used to be* 

Then I want to see the blaze of light, 
When the sun begins to rise* 

And wink—and blink—as I used to do* 
Because it hurt my eyes* 

Soon I'll hear the dishes rattling*— 
Mother's step upon the stair,— 

And father's voice a-calling, 

“Anybody awake up there?" 

I'm longing of a Sabbath-Day, 

To see old Deacon Rand 
Come slowly walking down the aisle, 
Contribution-box in hand; 

And when he passes it to me— 

Slyly drop a button in, 

And see which boy he'll tackle 
For committing such a sin* 

To see my father try to frown, 

And to say—“It's quite amiss 
For a man of fifty-one,—to do 
Such trifling things as this*" 

I'd give so much for just one ride 
Upon a load of hay, 

As the horses slowly jog along 
The hot and dusty way; 


35 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


While over-head, the thunder-clouds 
Are gathering thick and fast, 

And the farmer-boy, says, “Plain to see 
The hot spell's nigh 'bout passed;" 

To feel a little whiff o' wind,— 

And then a good smart breeze— 

That sends the birds a-scurrying, 

And sways the maple trees. 

I'm longing for the fragrance 
That the tossing clover sheds; 

For the hollyhocks and tulips 
In my mother's garden-beds; 

The tree-toad's droning plaint at night; 

The robin's song by day, 

And the gurgling stream, that's flowing 
To the ocean far away. 

“An old man's fancy" do you say? 

Well—maybe that is triie, 

But I've such a homey feeling 
At the thought of all o' you. 

But what's the use o' longing— 

When there's so much work to do? 
Orders piling up so fast, seems ' if 
We never could pull through. 

So good-bye to the dreaming— 

And perhaps,—another year,— 

When summer-time comes 'round again— 
I'll see my way more clear 


36 


HOMEY POEMS 


To the home-folks in the valley; 

The birds; the flowers, and trees;— 
But Pm longing,—oh! Pm longing so— 
For a sight of all o' these* 


37 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE LITTLE QUIRL ON THE CRUST 

N OW, a piece of pie, if you please, Marie; 

And then—I guess Pm through. 

Your dinner was excellent, my dear, 

As is everything you do; 

Ah, apple-pie! now this is nice— 

And all it lacks, I mistrust, 

To make it taste as mother's did,— 

Is the little quirl on the crust* 

What was it like? Well—let me see— 

It looked some like a figure eight; 

Right on the top-most cover, 

Always in the center of the plate* 

I've eaten stacks of pies since then, 

But, to be candid and just, 

None ever taste, quite—as mother's did,— 

With the little quirl on the crust* 

I remember, how brother Harry, 

When only a slip of a chap, 

Would tease sister Jane to put by her work, 

And then, would climb into her lap, 

And laugh with delight, when mother would say,— 
“Now sit very quiet you must, 

And I'll give you a piece of the dough, that's left 
From the little quirl on the crust." 


38 


HOMEY POEMS 


Perhaps you'll think Pm foolish, Marie, 

But the tears will come, as I think 
Of the vanished years—and the family-ties— 
Broken, link by link: 

Of happy days when joy was complete, 

Of air-castles crumbled to dust,— 

Since mother made her apple-pies— 

With the little quirl on the crust* 


39 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


TO LULLABY-TOWN 

C OME, little Virginia, and sit on my knee, 

And I'll take you to Lullaby-Town; 

The big rocking-chair our good ship shall be, 

All cozy with cushions of down. 

We'll take little Tinkle and old Mother Trot, 

If they'll surely be good and not mew; 

And we'll sing a nice song—as we journey along 
To far-away Lullaby-Town. 

Mother robin is guarding her baby-birds all, 

In their cozy and snug little nest; 

While the night-wind is singing a sweet refrain 
As gently she rocks them to rest. 

And out on the hill-side, the lambkins white 
Are safe in the shepherd's care; 

The big Sun declining—will soon cease its shining 
We must hasten to Lullaby-Town. 

The apple-tree blossoms are heavy with dew; 

The crickets are chirping with glee; 

The pansies and lilies have shut up their eyes 
Because they are sleepy, you see; 

And up in the sky, the bright pretty stars 
Come twinkling, one by one; 

And the Man in the Moon—will come pretty soon. 
To guide us to Lullaby-Town. 


40 


HOMEY POEMS 


So cuddle up closer and have not a fear; 

Our journey will soon be o'er; 

Already, we're nearing the Island of Rest 
That lies near the Sleepy-Town shore; 

Now, the Moon Man is casting his anchor at last; 

Sailing into the Harbor of Dreams; 

Sleep sweet—little lady, my hushaby baby,— 
We're safe in Lullaby-Town. 

Cleveland, Ohio, J897. 


41 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


AS WE JOURNEY ALONG 

E VERY seat in the street car was taken; 

In comfort each passenger sat; 

When a little old lady entered, 

Looking helplessly, this way and that, 
For a place she might rest her bundles; 

For the seat that she could not find; 

But nobody seemed to notice, 

And nobody seemed to mind* 

When up rose a manly figure; 

And a voice in a courteous tone 
Said, “This way madam, if you please,” 
And a kindly deed was done* 

He wasn't obliged to give up his seat; 

She couldn't expect him to; 

But, somehow—I couldn't help thinking— 
'Twas a nice thing for him to do* 

The clerk at the counter looked tired; 

The day had been hard and long; 

And customers many, but few to buy, 
Had passed her aisle along* 

And the few who bought were exacting, 
And never a word said they 
To the tired girl at the counter, 

That might lighten the tedious day* 


42 


HOMEY POEMS 


When along came a sweet-faced woman 
Who, in a most sisterly way 
To the girl who stood at the counter, said, 
"And how are you to-day? 

You're always so helpful and thoughtful,— 
'Tis a pleasure to trade with you;" 

So she scattered her bit of sunshine; 

'Twas a gracious thing to do* 

An old man stood long and pondered— 

As to whether or not he should try 
To cross o'er the crowded highway, 

As the whizzing cars went by* 

When a young girl stopped in passing,— 
"Won't you take my arm?" said she, 

And before the old man could thank her, 

Safe across the street was he* 

He turned the leaves of the hymn book, 

But the hymn he could not find,— 

When a lady leaned forward, and whispered— 
"We'll change books if you do not mind." 
So the stranger was happy a-singing; 

Through the lines a sweet melody rung; 
'Twas one of the hymns of his childhood; 
'Twas a hymn that his mother had sung* 

Now these are but just a few samples 
Of the good that we daily may do, 

If our hearts are but ready and willing; 

If to dictates of kindness we're true. 


43 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


And 'twill add to our stock of contentment; 

'Twill the largest of dividends pay; 

The helpful suggestion,—the word of good 
cheer,— 

As we journey along on our way« 


44 


HOMEY POEMS 


THE KITCHEN STOVE 

‘^7‘OLPLL find many people its praises to sing, 
Though with faults it most surely is blest; 
And I sometimes have wondered, which side would 
win out 

If the problem was put to the test. 

Not the pleasantest task on a cold winter's mom. 
When the mercury touches low mark, 

To anxiously wait for the clock to strike six 
And then—to crawl out in the dark. 

The kitchen is cold, and you wonder out loud 
Why they built it to face north-west; 

You conclude it's a question no answer can solve, 
And then set to work with a zest* 

You can't shake the grate—for it's broken one side, 
So the shovel you bring into play; 

You scoop out the ashes and cinders, the while 
A few sharp remarks you essay. 

You hunt for the poker and lifter, to find 
They're lying on top of the stove; 

The climax is reached—you decide then and there. 
Through the Southland next winter you'll rove. 


45 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


But these are all worries that soon you forget 
When the fire burns up bright and clear, 

And the odor of breakfast comes stealing anon 
Your ruffled up spirits to cheer* 

'Tis certain the gas-range will do the same work, 
And with it the stove can't compare 
As to fashion and style, but something it lacks; 
It's fine—but it isn't all there* 

'Tis the homey condition it lacks, and you miss 
The feeling it fails to inspire 
Of content, satisfaction, yes, sentiment too, 

That's a part of the stove and the fire* 

A trusty old friend is The Kitchen Stove; 

A companion that's served you quite well; 

It radiates warmth and a spirit of cheer, 

That worry and sadness dispel. 

Be it dull and old-fashioned—or shiny and new;— 
The kitchen will not be the same, 

Should you ever decide to install in its place 
Some rival—whatever its fame* 


46 


HOMEY POEMS 


THE SISTERS 

P OLLY was called a beauty,— 
'Tis certain she was fair. 

Bright and sparkling were her eyes 
And sunny was her hair. 

And she was over witty,— 

People often told her so; 

And compliments were many 
Wherever she might go. 

Quite the opposite was Betsey,— 
No winning charms had she 
Of face, or form, or comeliness, 

As every one could see. 

And all decried her lack of skill 
For witty things to say. 

Of compliments, she never dreamed; 
None ever came her way. 

Polly's dainty frills and ruffles 
Were the envy of the town. 

Out of place did Betsey look 
In other than plainest gown. 

Yet not an envious thought had she 
Of Polly's charm and grace; 

Nor ever showed by slightest sign, 
Desire to fill her place. 


47 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


But—sometimes—when admiring friends 
On Polly would bestow 
Some beauteous gift of flowers rare, 

(And oft ft happened so,) 

The hungry look in Betsey's eyes 
Was piteous to behold; 

'Twas the longing—that just such as these,— 
Her own hands might enfold. 

But Polly—all unheeding,— 

Ne'er thought her flowers to share, 

Till she missed the ministration 
Of her sister's love and care. 

Now,—Betsey's grave is bright with flowers 
That Polly brings each day; 

But, I wish she might have had them 
Before she passed away. 


48 


HOMEY POEMS 


MY NEIGHBOR AND I 

M Y neighbor's house is very grand— 
Set high upon a hill; 

And round about, broad acres stretch, 
Their master to view, at will* 

In Summer's sun—or Winter's snow 
nTis wondrous fair to see;— 

My neighbor's house, with its ivied walls 
And its air of luxury. 

My little cot is old and plain— 

Of beauty it has none; 

Such a tiny bit of land have I— 

Near the road its boundaries run. 

No ivied walls or flowers rare 
E'er graced my simple plot; 

Save—violet blue, or daffodil,— 

Or shy forget-me-not. 

And yet—I've seen my neighbor halt,— 
As he's been passing by 
This homely little place of mine, 

And gaze with wistful eye 
At the waving branches of my Elm; 

My big, old stately tree 
That's stood like sentinel on guard, 

For full a century. 


49 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


And so—although my house is small,— 
Of worldly stores Pve none; 

And though my neighbor's house is grand 
And wealth by him's been won; 

I cannot help but pity him, 

For I know he envies me 
The treasure that his gold can't buy,— 
My cherished old Elm-tree* 


50 


HOMEY POEMS 


COMPARISON 

T WO back-yards, with a fence between; 

A gate ajar—o'er which two dames 
Are in friendly chat indulging* 

The weather, and the joys and ills 
Of neighbors, one and all 
Have been discussed, till they, at last 
To reminiscence fall. 

They talk of friends who once were dear, 
Now numbered with the dead; 

Of childish sports; of youthful pranks, 

In which 'twas they that led; 

Of sons and daughters, long since gone 
From out the old home nest, 

And which of them that married, 

Had seemed to do the best* 

When up spoke one—“I've got so old 
My sands o' life's 'most run* 

It makes me tired to think about 
The work that I have done* 

My organs all has got so weak 
An' nigh about give out* 

I aint got no ambition now 
Anything to go about* 


51 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Ther' aint much use o' livin'— 
When your time's so short as mine; 

I somehow feel—as if I'm goin' 

Into sort of a decline/' 

"Pshaw!" the other quick replied, 
"What foolish things you say! 

If I was young like you," said she, 
"I'd start right in to-day 

An' build an ell on to my house, 

An' furnish it all new; 

I'd visit all my relatives— 

Some's in Californy, too; 

I'd dress me in the latest style, 

An' have a bran new bunnit 

With lots o' flowers an' ribbons, 

Or, maybe, a feather on it; 

I wouldn't mope an' wonder 
How long I'd got to stay, 

But I'd join in all the doin's; 

Have a good time every day/' 

"If I was young, like you," said she, 
"That's just what I would do; 

'Tis me—that's old—I'm eighty-five; 
You're only—seventy-two/' 


52 


HOMEY POEMS 


THE STEPS 

Y OU think it's old and shabby, 

And wonder why I care 
To clutter up the house with things 
Like this, that can't compare 
With the kind that nowadays, is bought 
At so very small a cost, 

And if 'twas yours, you'd hope, some day— 
To find that it was lost. 

Well—you see—you do not understand 
Its preciousness to me. 

I hope you've time to stop a bit, 

And I'll give its history. 

I do not wonder that you smile, 

And think it very queer 
I keep the old step-ladder, 

And always standing here. 

'Twas made by father's father, 

Of wood from a hickory-tree 
That stood on the farm for many a year,— 
Fully a century. 

And ofttimes, when a little girl, 

I've heard my father say,— 
was grandpa's gift to grandma 
Upon their wedding-day. 


53 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


When grandpa died, 'twas 'mong the things 
That fell to father's share 
Of household goods, from off the farm— 
No longer needed there* 

And to him I know 'twas dearer 
Than all else the farm possessed; 

This homely old step-ladder 

That was spurned by all the rest* 

He always nicknamed it—The Steps; 

Never called it by its name; 

And on a jog near the entry door, 

For years it held a claim* 

Other kitchen things were moved about, 
As often is the case, 

But unless in use,—The Steps—you'd find 
In its accustomed place* 

Few were the household duties 
In which it did not share; 

As it travelled on its weekly round 
From cellar to garret stair* 

And few the family festivals 
That its praises wasn't sung, 

When 'twas time to put the fixin's up, 

Or the holly wreaths were hung* 

With added years, and failing strength, 

My father seemed to grow 
More childish in his love for this 
Old relic of long ago* 


54 


HOMEY POEMS 


And I was the one to whom he liked 
To talk about it best, 

For I was more like father's folks 
Than were any of the rest* 

As we girls grew up and married,— 

Father told us each, to take 
Some household thing we'd like to have, 
Just for the old home's sake; 

And each girl was delighted, 

And knew her choice was best, 

And thought herself quite lucky 
'Twasn't taken by one of the rest* 

A set of dishes—Ellen took, 

Sent to Mother from abroad; 

While the high post bedstead—Mary chose, 
And Ruth—the harpsichord* 

And when Rebecca came to go, 

She took the dear old clock 
That for over sixty years, had been 
A part of the family stock* 

And as my wedding-day approached, 

My father said to me, 

"The choicest things are gone, Jane, 

As you cannot help but see: 

But I hope there's something that you'll prize, 
And whatever you may find— 

Don't hesitate to take it, dear, 

For fear that I will mind*" 


55 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


The look upon my father's face 
His utmost love expressed; 

He knew I'd never had a fear 
My choice would tempt the rest. 

And when I told him—that The Steps— 
Was the gift that I would gain. 

He clasped my hand,—and simply said, 
“I thought'twould be so, Jane." 

I could not think of taking it 
So long as father stayed; 

And the old step-ladder knew no home, 
Save the one it long had made 
In the jog beside the entry door, 

Where it held its kingly sway 
Till, with the summer's glory 
Father passed from earth away. 

The last time father used The Steps— 
Was a day in early June; 

He fixed the wood-house roof that leaked, 
Then said,—he guessed he'd prune 
The lilacs that were growing rank 
Beside the garden wall, 

And tie the grape-vine up a bit, 

'Cause 'twould help it in the Fall. 

And when the work was finished quite, 
We two sat down to rest 
Near a spot that father often chose 
Because it faced the West. 


56 


HOMEY POEMS 


And ah—the blessed memory 
Of that summer afternoon, 

That, with the shadows lengthening 
Was ended all too soon* 

I hope—that somehow—father knows 
That on his burial-day, 

'Twas The Steps—that held the beauteous 
blooms 

That close beside him lay; 

That on the round, where years before 
His father carved his name, 

Fresh leaves from off the hickory-tree 
To loyalty made claim* 

I know it's crude and homely, 

Pathetic, in the way 
It lacks for all that recommends 
The step-ladder of to-day* 

But tangled in my heart-strings— 

With memories sweet to me— 

Is this dear old relic father loved, 

Made from the hickory-tree* 


57 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


MY TOAD 

A LITTLE toad appeared one day 
In my garden's choicest spot; 
And lived there quite contentedly 
As though I saw him not* 

I thought him ugly, sometimes 
Even poked him, just for fun; 

But he seemed to take no notice— 
And just stayed on and on* 

But, when I found my posy-beds 
Quite rid of every pest 
I'd labored long to banish 
And its ravages arrest,— 

I welcomed him with gladness, 

And very soon—I grew 
To like that homely little toad 
For the good that he could do* 


58 


HOMEY POEMS 


A SLIGHT MISTAKE 

U/~\H girls! do look! did ever you see 
Such a baby in all creation?” 

Thus cried one, as the five fluttered in 

At the noisy Railway Station* 

“Can't we hold her a minute? Oh, you cute 
little thing*” 

“Just hear her laugh and coo*” 

“Has her dot any toosies in her dear 'ittle 
mouf ? 

“Did you ever see eyes so blue?” 

“And look at the ringlets all over her head*” 

“Isn't she sweet as she can be?” 

“Well, bye-bye, little baby, for here comes 
the train, 

And we musn't be late, you see.” 

“Oh! wait just a minute till we find out 
her name, 

And we'll give her a kiss and be gone.” 

Then baby's mamma smiled a queer little 
smile, 

As sweetly she answered—“It's John.” 


59 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


MY PICTURE-GALLERY 

A PICTURE-GALLERY is mine, from which 
great pleasure I derive; 

Nor ever tire the contemplation of its treasures rare* 
Yet strange to say, nor nearest kin, nor dearest friend 
Can access gain to this enchanted spot. 

None other than myself may enter there. 

But I, at will, at morning, noon, or when the even¬ 
ing shadows fall, 

Or e'en when midnight stillness all the earth enfolds, 
May roam alone—my picture-gallery through. 

And there are pictures there of every type and kind. 
Some scenes so beautiful, I many times return to feast 
upon their loveliness. 

But here and there, I suddenly come face to face with 
one I fain would pass, 

But so appealingly for recognition it implores, 

With bated breath—I answer to its call. 

My portraits—(how fondly I recall each well remem¬ 
bered face!) 

Some beaming with the ecstasy of youth, 

Others on which the lines of age have fallen; 

My kin—my friends—of now and yesterdays. 


60 


HOMEY POEMS 


And there are landscape scenes on which I dearly 
love to dwell; 

Of tugged mountain peaks, all wreathed in snow; 
Of palms and orange-groves where southern breezes 
blow; 

Of placid lakes, reflecting sunset's gold; 

And rolling surf that ocean's joys unfold* 

How each familiar spot a smile provokes, 

At thought of happy hours, when we two tarried 
there* 

And there are scenes that breathe of home and child¬ 
hood hours* 

And one—to which I turn more often than the rest* 
A plain old-fashioned house and front door-yard 
With grassy bank, whose lower edge a picket-fence 
adorns* 

A poplar-tree, 'neath which a swing-board dangles; 
And a willow-tree, whose sweeping branches hide 
and seek with sunbeams play. 

A pole, on which a bird-house perches, in which the 
bluebirds nest each Spring* 

And at its foot, an elderberry-bush; (strange how it 
ever happened there) 

A lilac-bush or two, and a flowering-currant with 
Its yellow blossoms and later, berries black. 

'Tween windows that eastward look, a trailing bush 
Of roses red (tacked on with bits of tape) 

A touch of color gives to the plain old house that's 
painted white* 


61 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


This little scene I seldom view in daylight's glare; 
But when the twilight shadows fall, 

And all is still save cricket's chirp or late bird's call, 
'Tis then sweet peace I find in its perusal* 

For where to one is first revealed the light of day. 

Is hallowed ground, toward which one ever turns with 
loving loyalty* 

My Memory pictures—safe guarded within my heart; 
And Time—the artist—has drawn his inspiration 
from the years. 

September* J9J9. 


62 


HOMEY POEMS 


A BIT OF GOLDENROD 

TUST a bit of Goldenrod, by the way-side growing; 

J Dainty as a fairy arrayed in hues of gold; 

Its pretty head a-nodding with every breeze that's 
blowing; 

But not a passer-by, its beauty doth behold* 

Yet stay! adown the road a little maid comes flying; 

With eyes like stars in heaven's diadem; 

'Tis the one wee bit of Goldenrod the little one is 
spying; 

And soon her chubby hands have plucked it from 
its stem* 

Long years have passed,—and Autumn winds are 
sighing 

Above a little form that lies beneath the sod; 

And safe among a mother's rare and costly treasures 
lying, 

Is one wee bit of faded Goldenrod* 


63 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


AT LILAC TIME 

1 KNOW a garden where some Lilacs grow; 

Not in the country near a farm-house door 
Where Lilacs are so wont to grow, 

But in a city door-yard small of space, 

A picket-fence between them and the road, 

That serves as barrier, to careless, thieving hands* 
Time was, when they were beautiful indeed; 

But that was long ago—when I, a little girl 
Oft passed them on my way to school* 

Tall bushes then they were, that to my childish, eager 
eyes 

Seemed ever giving me some new surprise* 

I loved the fragrant blossoms, and I longed to clasp 
them in my hands,— 

But dared not beg so great a privilege* 

*Tis many a year since then, but when— 

At Lilac Time—I suddenly come face to face 
With a bush of the dear familiar blooms, 

The years roll back,—and in my place, there stands 
A curly-headed girl on way to school, 

And all the old sensations of delight are mine* 


64 


HOMEY POEMS 


THE THREE PHOTOGRAPHS 

T HREE photographs,—two somewhat worn and 
Faded with the years, the other of more recent 
date,— 

Upon my desk before me lie* 

From 'mong the many of family, kin and friends, 
These three hold honored place. 

The first,—a boy of three; with curls of gold, 

And big brown eyes, that into mine look question- 
ingly. 

At sight of the pictured face, what memories 
Of yesterdays long past are brought to mind. 

Again we two are in a vine-clad cottage far away; 
'Tis the twilight hour; save where dusky 
Shadows lie, the room is bathed in ruddy glow, 
As blazing logs heaped high, their radiance throw 
o'er all the scene. 

The musical creak of the low rocking-chair as softly 
to and fro we sway; 

The rhythmical tick of the cuckoo-clock as 
It ticks the hours away;—these sounds I seem to 
hear. 

Save for "The Fat Boy Book" and little Jim, 

(Jim was the worsted sailor boy; of the little 
One with curls of gold, the pride and joy,) the play¬ 
things all are put away* 


65 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


From the window we watch the town lights till dark¬ 
ness falls* 

The bed-time stories then are told; 

The Fat Boy's adventures read, re-read and ex¬ 
plained ; 

Till, as the village clock peals out the hour of eight, 
The curly head has drooped upon my shoulder, 

And with Sailor Jim clutched tightly in hand, 

The boy of three has drifted away to the Island of 
Dreams. 

This second picture of my three,—reveals a boy of 
six. 

The curls are gone, but the same brown eyes into 
mine look trustingly. 

How well I mind that little suit of gray, 

For long I labored in its fashioning, and 
With each stitch a thought of love and pride was 
woven. 

His first school days, and that first primer, 
(Gingham covered, upon whose pages here and there 
A pencil drawing, crude, 'tis true, is sketched,) 

I well remember. 

'Mong treasured things of past years, this book, a 
cherished memento lies. 

A manly lad, affectionate and kind, was this little 
boy of six. 

And this,—is the one of more recent date; 

The last of my photographs three. 

Pictured here, I see the counterpart of one 
For whom each day my heart gives thanks; 


66 


HOMEY POEMS 


From whose eyes looking fondly into mine, 

I read naught but love and devotion* 

My loyal counselor, my comrade in life's vicissitudes, 
And sharer in all that makes for it its comfort and 
content* 

Three photographs upon my desk before me lie* 

The little one with curls of gold; 

The brown-eyed boy of six; 

The stalwart man in whom I find such wealth of 
happiness; 

You ask me which I love the best! 

I'm sure I cannot tell; 

For each the other two portrays, and in the three 
I see but one—my son* 

February, 1919* 


67 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


IN THE FIRELIGHT 

S ITTIN' in the firelight; kind o' dreamin' like;— 
While ghostly shadows flit upon the walk 
Seein' in the cracklin' blaze 
Visions of the happy days; 

Longin'—for a time that's past recall* 

Listenin' to the patter of the rain upon the roof, 
And the music of the chill wind's dreary moan. 
Hearin' voices sweet and low; 

Hearin' footsteps come and go;— 

Startin' up—to find I'm all alone. 

Hummin' softly to myself one o' the dear old tunes, 
While tear-drops from my eyelids gently fall. 
Chokin' down a weary sigh, 

As the hours go slowly by, 

And the shadows dance and flit upon the wall. 


68 


HOMEY POEMS 


CONTENTMENT 

S AID the Sunflower, to the Violet, 
“How lonely you must be, 

Away down there so near the ground, 
With nothing much to see; 

Just look at me—how tall I am,— 
How stately and how grand; 

How you can ever happy be, 

I don't quite understand*” 

"Ah, me!” replied the Violet, 

"You've made a great mistake; 

For I was just a-wondering, 

How very much 'twould take 
To tempt me to change places. 

With one who must be sad; 
Because, though clothed in beauty, 

He yet no fragrance had*” 

Not all may be a Sunflower,— 

Nor yet, a Violet sweet; 

But each may find Contentment, 

If not happiness complete; 

And what one lacks,—another, may 
To the web of life supply* 

Perhaps, you—are the Sunflower, 
The modest Violet,—I. 


69 









POEMS OF OCCASION 











POEMS OF OCCASION 


RHODE ISLAND'S INDEPENDENCE HALL 


Read at a meeting of the Rhode Island Citizens' Historical 
Association held in the old State House, Providence, Rhode 
Island, May 4, 1909. In commemoration of the One Hundred 
and Thirty-third Anniversary of Rhode Island's Independence 
Day. 

Old State House built 1761. 

D O you know that beautiful legend 

Of the King and the Princess fair? 

She dwelt in the sunny Southland; 

His home was the wild beast's lair. 

All Nature trembled before him; 

And shrank from the grasp of his hand; 

And chafed at the wide desolation 
His presence spread over the land. 


But there came a day when the Princess, 
In her garments of silvery sheen, 

Flung wide o'er the desolate landscape 
Her mantle of emerald green. 

With her magical wand she loosened 
The grasp of the pitiless King; 

All Nature burst forth into singing, 

For Winter had yielded to Spring. 


One hundred and thirty-three years ago, 
We were held in the grasp of a hand 
That destroyed, instead of protected, 

The God-given rights of our land; 


73 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Whose acts of despotic oppression, 

In patriot hearts left a sting 
That rankled, because of injustice 
Meted out by a pitiless King* 

Not for long, could the crown of Great Britain 
Regardless of compact and right, 

Compel this patriot people 

To submit to its power and might; 

There came a day, when its bondage 
Should oppress them, never again; 

Not through the wand of a Princess, 

But by the stroke of a pen. 

When the sun shone out o'er the city 
That eventful morning in May, 

There seemed nothing to mark it so different 
From many another May-day. 

Birds caroling their songs from the tree-tops; 

The sweet-scented breath of the morn,— 
Gave not a hint that Rhode Island's 
Most illustrious day had been born. 

Yet this day of all others, was destined 
To make for this brave state a name; 

To give her an honor peculiar; 

A glory none other may claim; 

To strike from her shoulders oppression, 

And all that its bondage had wrought, 

And substitute freedom of action, 

Which long her brave townsmen had sought. 


74 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


In this old State Capitol building; 

In this hall where we've gathered to-day 
Our own Declaration of Freedom 

Was launched on its peace-giving way, 
Twas our own little state that declared it; 

The first in all this broad land, 

To openly bid bold defiance 

To a King's despotic command. 

We know that we have the distinction 
Of being the smallest state; 

And we may be a trifle old-fashioned; 

In all things not quite up to date. 

Is it true that the wealth of a jewel 
Is valued because of its size} 

Do the largest flowers in our garden-beds 
Most appeal to admiring eyes? 

Do you think that the little violet 
In its modest garb of blue, 

Would exchange its native sweetness 
For the sunflower's gaudy hue? 

Do you fancy that little Rhode Island 
Would exchange her memories sweet 
For an empire's boasted glory, 

Though willingly laid at her feet? 

Go ask of the murmuring waters 
Where the Gaspee met her fate; 

Or the whispering pines in the church-yard 
Where lie our heroes of state. 


75 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Or list for your echoing: answer 

From the walls of this Temple of Fame; 
Emblazoned with burning: and eloquent words 
That immortalized many a name* 

No need for us to distinguish 

Ourselves by such deeds as did they, 

When they met in this old “Independence Hall” 
That eventful Fourth day of May; 

The hated yoke of oppression, 

Long since has crumbled to dust; 

And bitterness, born of tyrannical rule 
Given place to freedom and trust* 

They played well their part in life's drama; 

Their stage of action, was bright 
With deeds of true loving devotion, 

That made for justice and right; 

Soon for them life's stage work was ended; 

Its shifting scenes knew them no more; 

And the final drop of the curtain, 

Closed to them life's mystical door* 

All honor to the name of Jefferson; 

Of Hancock and Adams and Lee; 

And all of the great compatriots 

Whose act made a great nation free; 

But reverently, this day, do we gather 
To honor the names of our own; 

And with music, with rhyme, and with story, 
Perpetuate deeds they have done* 


76 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


And somehow, I cannot help thinking, 

If unrolled was the scroll of fame, 

And our eager eyes were permitted to scan 
Each honored, illustrious name, 

“Little Rhody's" would not be missing; 

But would stand out clear and bright 
With that of Jonathan Arnold, 

Whose pen declared for the right* 

The names of our heroes are many; 

Too many to give in my rhyme; 

But their deeds, their words, and their virtues, 
Are enshrined in our hearts for all time* 

We'll bring each an offering of Rosemary sweet; 

And our garlands of pure Immortelle; 

And we'll scatter them here—“for remembrance"— 
As our story of freedom we tell* 

And long—may this quaint old State House, 
Each recurring Fourth day of May, 

Tell to resident, pilgrim and stranger 
Why we honor this place, and this day* 

And soon speed the time when in letters of gold 
That no power shall ever recall, 

We may read, high up o'er its doorway, 

“Rhode Island's Independence Hall," 


77 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


WOMEN'S CLUBS 

PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE 

T HE club of the Past,—perhaps 'twas not quite 
Like the woman's club of To-day, 

But so far as its purpose and aim was concerned, 

It was not so far out of the way* 

Its membership—lacking in numbers, 'tis true, 

Yet strove with a will, to perform 
The limited work which its hands found to do, 
And ever to duty conform. 

The place of its meeting:—in fancy, I see 
An old-fashioned house on a hill; 

With a garden, whose riotous color of bloom 
Seems with fragrance the senses to fill. 

And peeping inside through the half open blind 
Of the best sitting-room, I behold 
That a club is in session,—maybe twenty or so 
Of women,—some young and some old. 

In quaint-fashioned garb of both pattern and make, 
But with faces as bright as the day, 

They stitch—and they talk—till one hardly can tell 
Whether gossip or business holds sway. 


78 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


I judge that the minister's wife takes the lead, 

By the trust that her counsel inspires, 

But as for Board of Directors—each one takes a 
hand, 

Whenever occasion requires* 

Several mottoes I see hanging: high on the wall, 

In frame-work of rustic design; 

And an old-fashioned vase filled with violets blue, 
Of its flower and color give sign* 

Its name—is so simple, that never a time 
For a change to a better they see; 

Perhaps you have guessed, and I need not explain,— 
'Tis the old village church Sewing-bee* 

It is little they know of the Arts or the Crafts; 

And the words, “Civil Service Reform," 

Would savor of Greek to these primitive minds, 

As devoid of all meaning or form* 

But the subjects “Home Economics" and “Health" 
Are familiar as nursery-rhyme 
To this quaint little circle,—this club of the Past,— 
The club of our grandmother's time* 

Like an army, well drilled in the tactics of war, 
Stands the woman's club of To-day; 

Yet ever with weapons of peace and good-will 
Her soldiers must enter the fray* 

“We battle 'gainst Ignorance, Folly and Sin," 

Is inscribed on her banner unfurled: 

The improvement of woman's condition, her cause: 
Her field is the home of the world* 


79 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Would it savor of unseemly pride, if just here 
We allude in a casual way, 

To our own “Mothers' Club," which seemeth to us 
A fair sample of club life to-day? 

Its President, officers, and each member as well, 

All alive to the needs of the hour; 

And working: in line with the Infinite Love 
Which alone is her secret of power* 

“Concentration, Charity, Cheer," are the words 
Of the motto inscribed on her page* 

What three could she choose, to more clearly express 
The spirit and trend of the age? 

Philanthropy, Science, Education and Health, 

All have on her program a place; 

No subject too broad her attention to hold, 

Too deep for her courage to face* 

Always willing to strive,—never satisfied quite 
With her work, be it ne'er so well done; 

Forever with eyes looking upward, she longs 
And dreams of a goal to be won; 

Where woman, not only may argue—but act— 

On the problems so near to her heart; 

Where, in every great issue pertaining to home, 
She may have her own integral part* 

The club of the Future—what seer can foretell 
The treasures your storehouse may yield, 

When opened to view by the swift going years 
Your mysteries all are revealed; 


80 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


What questions of import, now puzzling the mind, 
Shall find in the simplest of ways— 

An answer to suit the most sceptical mind, 
Unthought—and undreamed—in these days* 

As a tapestry, rich in its color and design, 

Slowly grows to its final effect, 

Through the hands of the artist, well trained in the 
skill 

That has taken them years to perfect;— 

So the club of the Future, well rounded at last, 
Shall stand in its power sublime, 

As the work of not one—but of many brave hearts, 
Since the club of our grandmothers' time* 

The club of the Past—whose members have long 
Been chanting the heavenly song; 

The club of the Present—now doing its work 
As it journeys the pathway along; 

The club of the Future—still shrouded in mist 
By the hand of the fates yet unriven, 

Which one of the three,—shall be able to say, 

“To me only—the glory be given?" 

Written for the Annual Luncheon 
of the Providence Mothers' Club 
February 9, 1914* 


81 



HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


TO GEORGE C. SIMMONS 

On his Eightieth Birthday Anniversary 
January 16, 19J4. 

A LL hail! to our host of the evening:; 

• Our time honored friend of the years; 
To whom, with glad hearts we pay homage 
Unrivalled by lords or by peers; 

To whose welcome our hearts are responding 
With a gratitude great as our love, 

That eighty long years in their fullness 
Have been granted to him from above, 

'Twas not in the time of the roses 

That his eyes opened first to the light; 

But when Winter had thrown o'er the landscape 
Her mantle of glittering white; 

Yet the love that awaited his coming, 

Knew neither December nor May; 

It has followed him all through his journey, 
And illumines this happy birthday. 

Not all has been sunshine and gladness, 

For the clouds must come,—and the rain; 
And many a time of rejoicing 

Has been shadowed by sorrow and pain. 
And sometimes,—the feet that were weary 
Have faltered, perhaps, by the way; 

For eighty long years are so many,— 

To travel life's rugged highway. 


82 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


How blest is this sweet reuniting 

Of kinship and friends tried and true; 

This season of fond retrospection; 

This blending of old times with new* 

How scenes long forgotten come stealing 
O'er senses made glad by the hour,— 

As sweet as the bird note at evening, 

Or the perfume distilled from a flower* 

'Tis a time for rejoicing and feasffng; 

'Tis a time to be happy and free; 

For the hand-clasp and brotherly greeting 
That's extended to you and to me; 

For the good-will that finds its expression 
Not only in word but in deed; 

For the love and the friendship, that only 
Can spring from sincerity's seed* 

Yet, we cannot forget in our gladness 
That loved and invisible throng, 

Who, united in spirit triumphant, 

Are chanting the heavenly song. 

And may we not fancy, that somewhere— 
Perhaps it may be very near,— 

Unseen—but not lost—do they linger, 

And alike bless our smile and our tear. 

The veil 'twixt the present and future 
We have not the power to rend; 

But whatever our lot, we'll accept it 
And faithfully strive to the end* 


83 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


So with trust unabated and hope undismayed, 
On another year's round we'll embark; 

And who knows—but again we may gather 
When he reaches the century mark* 


84 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


OUR COUNTRY 

Read at a dinner of the Providence Mothers' Club 
April 4, 1918 

W E hail thee! Our Country! the fairest of lands; 

The country that ever for loyalty stands; 
Whose ideals are built on Democracy's plea 
That makes it a free land for you and for me* 

Our Country! the land of our forefathers' pride; 
The land that they fought for and as valiantly died* 

From ocean to ocean, a queen she holds sway; 

She's alive to the problems and tasks of a day 
That stands for progression, whatever its kind; 
She's a peer among nations; and where shall we find 
A country more ready, in all that aspires 
To fulfil for its people just aims and desires? 

We're proud of Our Country; her cities and towns; 
Her farm-lands; her hamlets; her meads and her 
downs; 

Her rivers; her valleys that peacefully lie 
'Tween mountains, snow-capped, towering up to the 
sky; 

We're proud of the fact that she gave us our birth; 
She ranks with the noblest and best of the earth* 


85 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


A symbol is hers, on whose stripes we may read 
No distinction of color, vocation or creed; 

'Tis an emblem of freedom; of a cause that is just; 
As it waves all triumphant and true to its trust; 
'Tis the flag of Our Country; the Red, White and 
Blue; 

'Tis a symbol no power of earth can subdue* 


But alas! for Our Country,—she's mourning to-day 
For her sons “gone across" that most perilous way 
To succor the helpless; to stand by the brave 
Who are fighting so nobly their countries to save 
From a hand that is ruthless; a foe that is strong; 
That makes no distinction 'twixt the right and the 
wrong* 


And what of her daughters? Can she ever repay 
The brave sacrifices they're making to-day, 

While with hearts torn with grief for the loved “over 
there," 

They yet patiently toil, and as willingly share 
In the burden, whatever, wherever it be; 

Even murmuring not, should it lead 'cross the sea? 


86 


POEMS OF OCCASION 


Our Country! God bless her! and swift speed the day 

When the mantle of Peace shall this whole earth 
array; 

When nations now warring, shall lay down their 
arms, 

And forever be freed from a foe's dread alarms; 

Then with hearts all exultant, our pledge we'll re¬ 
new 

To the land over which floats the Red, White and 
Blue* 


87 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


A MEMORY OF HAVANA 

A PERFECT night; with air so soft, that June 
Might well have claimed it for her own. 
How beautiful The Prado— 

With its careless throng of gaily decked 
Men and women* 

Down by The Malecon, the sweetest music 
Floats out upon the flower-scented air, 

While above shine the tropical stars* 

A step—and we are at the sea-wall* 

How our hearts thrill, as across the harbor, 

We see old Morro Castle 

With its grim gray walls bold and rugged 

Against the evening sky* 

How we loved its streaming white light; 

For had it not, when miles away 
And tossed about upon a stormy sea, 

Been the first to welcome us 
To Havana, "The Beautiful?” 

Stately ships safely anchored in the harbor; 

Tiny pleasure-boats skimming the waters 
To the tune of a Spanish melody,— 

Alike are sentinelled by your steadfast beams; 
While many a storm-tossed mariner 
Has found in you a guiding star* 

You fascinate us,—and we fain would linger,— 
But the night passes, and we turn our faces 
Toward the lights of the city* 

March 30, 1911* 


91 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


TO THE MARCH WINDS 

W ELCOME March winds! with your bluster and 
blow; 

We greet you with gladness and song. 

Though many rude pranks on us mortals you play, 
Our discomfort will not be for long. 

So blow March winds—and we'll list with delight 
As you pipe us your merriest lays. 

We hail you to-day as a jolly good friend, 

With your roistering, rollicking ways. 

With noisy acclaim, as a troublesome guest, 

You come in your flimsy disguise; 

But be not deceived, we see through your game, 
You're the kindest and wisest of guys. 

For trailing along in your wake, is the pledge 
Of such wonderful, beautiful things; 

The song of the robin—the blossoming flower— 
That the blast of your trumpeting brings. 

You bid bold defiance to Winter's stern reign; 

With his ice-pack you bid him begone; 

Then over the hill-tops and valleys, you send 
Good news of a swift-coming morn. 

When Nature, no longer enthralled by his power, 
Will your praises exultantly sing; 

So blow March winds—blow your wildest—who 
cares! 

You herald the coming of Spring. 


92 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


LOVE'S QUEST 

S OMEWHERE—you're wondering; what day— 
what hour— 

You'll cross my pathway,—and I 
Am wondering;—watching;—and waiting for you; 

Can you tell me the reason why? 

The solution is simple, for do you not know 
Kind fate has decreed that each heart, 
Somewhere—some day—in this wide, wide world— 
Shall find its counterpart? 

So sure as the river in innocent glee 
Wanders out to the ocean's embrace; 

So sure as the bird on swift-flying wing 
Finds its mate in limitless space; 

So sure, are you—tending in unconscious quest 
Toward the goal of your heart's desire* 

Nor time—nor space—can barrier place; 

Naught stay love's unquenchable fire* 

So in patience I wait,—nor fret, nor repine; 

From the mist of uncertainty free; 

Somewhere—some day—I shall see your face: 
Even now—you are hastening to me* 


93 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE PARISH CHURCHES OF BERMUDA 


Q UAINT relics of a long-ago! 

Ye bring to mind a wealth of hours; 
When free from care, we recked of nought 
But golden sunshine, birds and flowers* 


What days of pleasure, unalloyed— 

While seeking some historic shrine; 

By sea, in nook, or shady lane— 

Where charms of Nature all were thine* 


Your old gray walls by loving hands 
Kept free from Time's decay, 

Are monuments to loyal hearts 
That long since passed away* 

You call not to the busy throng 
On pleasure and excitement bent; 
But peaceful rest, within your walls— 
Is as a gift from heaven sent* 


Your church-yards! shall we e'er forget 
Those gardens of the dead; 

The fragrance sweet of riotous bloom 
O'er crumbling tombstones shed? 


94 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


The gay poinsettia, all aflame, 

Vies with the lily fair— 

In offering homage to the dead, 

That long have slumbered there. 

No dream of grandeur you inspire— 

Dear churches of a long-ago! 

But memories—sweet as breath of June— 
Gladden our hearts, at thought of you. 


95 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


COMMON THINGS 

T HE common things; how prone we are 
To pass them idly by; 

Not with intent, but carelessly; 

The simple things, that lie 
Spread out by Nature's lavish hand, 
Where'er our paths may lead; 

Yet so familiar have they grown, 

We give them little heed« 

The tiny flower reveals to us 
The coming of the Spring, 

But if our eyes are closed to it, 

We miss its blossoming; 

And oft, unheard by passer-by 
Plodding his weary way, 

Is the music of the song-bird 
Trilling its evening lay* 

We travel far for paintings rare, 

On which to feast the eye; 

Yet scarcely note the gorgeous tints 
That deck the sunset sky* 

The twilight fades—the evening falls— 
Yet all unconscious we 
Of the painting by the Master Hand, 
Our eyes have failed to see* 


96 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

With feverish haste we join the throng 
On happiness intent; 

When, maybe, all about us, are 
The seeds of sweet content, 

That if given place within the heart, 
Would chase away the gloom; 

And make of life's waste places 
Gardens of perpetual bloom* 

So while we're seeking high and low 
For sights to please the eye, 

Why should we shun the common things 
That close beside us lie? 

A blade of grass—a homely weed—- 
The simplest things we see; 

May bring a deal of happiness 
And cheer, to you and me* 


97 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE ROSE AND THE DAISY 

A BEAUTIFUL rose in a garden grew, 

And was nurtured with tenderest care; 

Till one day, by a lover 'twas plucked and sent 
As a gift to a lady fair* 

With kisses she bathed its dainty leaves, 

Then watched it day by day, 

And quaffed its sweetness with constant love, 

Till it faded quite away* 

Close by the way-side, a daisy grew, 

Unnoticed, unloved and alone, 

Save for the sunshine and dew's caress, 

And the wind's low monotone; 

When one day, the maiden, passing by, 

Tossed her withered rose away; 

Over the hedge it softly fell, 

And close by the daisy lay* 

The daisy lived its own short life, 

When it too faded and died; 

Then—the ruthless wind took their petals both 
And scattered them far and wide* 

The unloved and lonely,—the petted, caressed,— 
In death found a like repose; 

And none, but the Father above, could tell— 
Which was the daisy—and which the rose* 


98 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


THE TWO PATHS 

I CANNOT tell—why I—that summer afternoon 
On one thought only bent, and that of walking 
in the wood, 

Should take the other path that led 
Beside the sea; 

For the air was hot and heavy, and the wood 
With its cool shade was wont to hold alluring charms 
for me; 

Yet out into the open,—where the sun's 
Pitiless rays showed naught of mercy 
To any living thing, I wandered; 

Nor even for one moment pondered 
As to why I made the choice* 

Fortune—Fate—by whatsoever name 'tis called 
It matters not; yet this I know,— 

That had I chose the wood—and shunned the sea— 
Perhaps, Dear Heart—I never had met thee* 


99 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


OLD MEETING-HOUSES OF NEW ENGLAND 

W E pass them oft, as on our daily rounds we go,— 
These quaint old meeting-houses of a long ago. 
But so familiar have they grown, 

With seeming carelessness, we often fail to give them 
recognition. 

Yet, if by untoward accident they vanish from our 
sight, 

How keen our sorrow at their passing. 

Sometimes well back upon a village green they stand; 
Small and plain, but homey looking; 

With spires that silhouetted 'gainst the sky, 

Their crowning feature is. 

Adjoining,—a plot of ground, where epitaphs on 
crumbling stones, 

The virtues of long departed saints extol; 

And pines and evergreens o'er precious dust a requiem 
sing. 

And sometimes 'mid the busy marts of trade 
An honored place they hold; 

Their architecture, symmetry and design, 

A fitting monument to those who fashioned them. 
Bathed in the sunshine of many a summer's day; 
Beaten by storm and wintry blast; 

Like towers of strength they stand; 

An inspiration to the pulsing life of the city's multi¬ 
tude. 


100 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


The interior of these old shrines, how charming:. 

The appointments of elegance are missing:, 

And simplicity marks every detail. 

On entering: the hospitable door-way, 

A border-line we seem to cross 
*Twixt the Present and the Past. 

Into one of the old-fashioned pews, with the door se¬ 
curely fastened behind us, 

We settle down, with a feeling: of peace and content. 
An atmosphere of antiquity pervades the place, 

And casts its spell upon our senses. 

In the opening exercises we take a part; 

Then—find our thoughts drifting away to scenes that 
are far remote. 

In vain we strive their truant wanderings to control, 
For Fancy refuses to be coerced by a decree of the 
mind, 

And leads us as she wills. 

Through open windows, a glimpse we catch of elm- 
boughs swaying; 

And through the slats of half closed blinds, 

Stray sunbeams flit, and strange pranks play 
On high-backed pews and whitewashed walls. 

We smile, with those who (in our fancy) close beside 
us sit. 

Such simple things the mind distracts, and mirth 
affords, 

Regardless of time, or place, or circumstance. 


101 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


Now the front pews we people, with the deacons of 
half a century ago* 

In their long-waisted coats and high collars and stocks, 
Stiff and prim they sit; till, as the preacher's 
Thirdly and fourthly is reached, 

Each dozes, and a sleepy acquiescence nods to the 
doctrine being propounded* 

Motherly dames in homespun clad; 

Rosy-cheeked girls who sidelong glances cast 
At bashful farmer-boys the aisles across; 

Not one is missing from the accustomed place* 

In the high pulpit with its winding stair-way, 

Stands the old patriarch, with solemn yet benignant 
air. 

For fifty years he has ministered to his little flock; 
Baptized their offspring; buried their dead* 

Now the rustle of a silken gown we hear; 

And with feverish eagerness, a little closer to the 
aisle we edge, 

Lest a glimpse of the sweet-faced bride we miss* 

At the altar we see her kneel; we hear the words of 
the marriage ceremony. 

Again the rustle of the silken gown—and she is gone; 
And we fall to wondering how many such have 
passed 

In and out of the ancient door-way* 

When lo! the benediction is being pronounced; 

We rise and join in the singing of the doxology; 


102 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


The spell is broken—and we realize 

That with two congregations we have worshipped 
to-day; 

One yet in the body,—the other, that long years ago 
passed on* 

Dear old meeting-houses of New England! 

A precious legacy from our loved and honored an¬ 
cestors, 

Who “builded better than they knew*” 


103 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE HOUR BETWEEN 

T HE distant hills lie cold and gray in darkening 

light 

A silhouette, 'gainst sunset's fading glow, 

The interlace of branch and twig—how beautiful* 
In yonder church-yard, snow-wreaths lie, laid 
Lovingly by snows of yester-night, on tombstone, 
mound and monument* 

How still!—no sound save the wind as in weird 
Unrest it wails on its weary way* 

How chill the air!—the winter's day is drawing to 
its close* 

'Tis the hour between—the daylight and the dark* 

Fresh logs upon the dying embers throw* 

My easy-chair—ah! now—'tis cozy thus to sit 
And watch the crackling blaze* 

How it leaps and dances—as childhood, in 
Exuberance of youth, voices its joy in wild expres¬ 
sions of delight* 

Now—in softer tones it croons and sings; 

While Fancy revels in the melodies of years long past* 
And yet how cruel are its attributes; 

For see!—how stealthily, greedily, its victims it en¬ 
folds ; 

And showing naught of pity or concern, 

In manner swift, consigns them to their fate* 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


Its fury spent—now lazily it curls its wraith-like 
arms, 

Yet loses not its hold, until at last,—the 
Charred and helpless logs a mass of glowing embers 
fall. 

Bravely they face the final dissolution,— 

And with each sudden gust of wind, 

Heroic effort make, in last expiring breath* 

I love this quiet hour—but ah—how short its stay* 
Turn on the lights—my books await my coming* 


105 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


MY VISITOR 

A VISITOR came to my heart one day; 

So fair and winning was she, 

That when for admittance she softly knocked, 
I welcomed her royally; 

And said “I trust that you'll tarry here, 

For a strange delight you bring*" 

From a barren waste—my heart became 
A garden of flowers rare; 

Of singing birds and sun-lit skies; 

Of freedom from worry and care* 

And my world is a world of sweet content 
Since my visitor came to me* 

Ah Love! what potent power hast thou 
Thy joys to thus impart; 

Abide with me—nor ever stray 
From the shelter of ‘ my heart; 

For should'st thou leave—how could I bear 
To walk apart from thee! 


106 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


A SONNET 

TVTHEN garish day gives place to twilight hour, 
™ And kindly Nature, ever mindful of my plea, 
Her peace and quiet gladly shares with me, 

'Tis then—that Fancy, with her magic power, 
Endues me with a princely dower* 

Leads me to her portal—bids me see 
A land from toil and discontent set free, 

And redolent with love's unfolding flower* 

When, suddenly—with naught that savors of adieu, 
The gate is closed:—And I, who for a little space, 
Such ecstasy of living knew, 

'Though all unwillingly—my weary steps retrace; 
And, with the beauteous vision lost to view, 

Again—life's toilsome tasks and burdens face* 


107 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


WITH THE ODOR OF A FLOWER 

W ITH the odor of a flowei 
There ever comes to me, 

As link, 'twixt past and present days, 
Some precious memory* 

The lilacs subtle fragrance 
My mother's garden brings; 

And with the scent of jasmine, 

A lullaby she sings* 

With roses, California's clime; 

Skies of cerulean blue; 

Old Missions, grim and gray with age, 
And blossoms of every hue* 

A shining beach—A rolling surf— 
Winds laden with perfume; 

Strains of music 'neath waving palms, 
Come with an orange-bloom. 

And with the sweet arbutus, 

(Carolina's gift to me,) 

Comes an echo of old plantation-songs 
Pulsing with melody* 


108 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


With the perfume of a lily— 

Bermuda's gardens fair* 

A flash of red—and a Cardinal-bird 
Wings its way through the scented air* 

The quaint old-fashioned garden 
Of a poet's life-long home; 

Comes with the spicy odor 
Of a late chrysanthemum* 

With fragrance rare—of blooms that drip 
All wet from fountain-spray, 

Comes an evening in Havana, 

On the Prado's moon-lit way* 

Ah! the odor of a flower 
Is ever sweet to me; 

But sweetest—when it brings to mind 
Some precious memory* 


109 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


APART 

W E walk together—he and I,— 

Yet far apart as far can be; 

His eyes are closed—his ears untuned— 
To what I daily hear and see* 

The Book of Nature, holds for him 
No treasures rich with mystic lore; 

The sunlit paths I daily tread,— 

To him are as a barren shore* 

The rose—to him—is but a rose; 

Its fragrance lost on summer air; 
Could I a sweeter draught inhale, 

As I behold its beauty rare? 

To gorgeous tints of sunset sky— 

My heart responds with pure delight; 
I marvel—that to him—they're but 
A presage of the coming night* 

And yet, perhaps, when this life passed, 
We've gained a more celestial sphere; 
Untrammelled by the mortal things 
That so enthrall and hinder here, 

His senses, all untrained below, 

To beauties that I hear and see, 

May suddenly respond—and know 
The greater joy and ecstasy* 


110 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


AN OLD CEMETERY 

Grace Church, Providence, R. I. 

T HERE'S an old cemetery through which I often 
pass; 

More oft in Summer,—sometimes In Winter, when 
the day is fine* 

'Tls like—and yet so very unlike other cemeteries 
that I know* 

Not—far removed from city's din and bustling life, 
Where naught but song of birds and footsteps light, 
Its sense of stillness and its solitude relieve; 

But bounded 'tls, by thoroughfares, where teeming 
life is found; 

And throngs of people pass It day by day* 

Enclosed by picket-fence, that somewhat rural as¬ 
pect gives, 

And spanned its entrance, by an arch, whose top a 
lantern of ancient type adorns* 

Some cemeteries are as gardens fair, In beautiful, 
sequestered places* 

The one of which I write, Is plain, old-fashioned, well 
kept, and of a goodly size* 

With trees 'tls well supplied, but lays no claim to 
Beauty other than that which Nature has bestowed 
upon It* 


111 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


In landscape gardening it has no part; 

And yet, such pretty things I've seen there growing* 
Yellow daisies, whose golden hue a splash of color 
gave 'mid grasses waving; 

While close by the fence, the tiger-lilies bloom; and 
violets sweet; and buttercups* 

And once, upon a lowly mound, a single spike of 
hollyhocks I saw; 

Stately and tall, like sentinel on guard, its crimson 
Blossoms challenged attention from each passer by* 
Again, when late November's chill was in the air, 

I saw a tiny rose-bush full of blooms 
Whose subtle fragrance, mingled with the smell of 
late chrysanthemums, 

(Great bushes of them close at hand) 

Gave little hint of Winter's dread approach* 

My kin—my loved—and old-time friends are sleep¬ 
ing here; 

And such a privilege 'tis, I may, so oft, a tribute pay 
unto their memory* 

And I have sometimes thought—if so it be, that these, 
our loved, 

Take cognizance of that which interests us day by 
day, 

They may be well content to know they yet have 
place, 

Not—far removed beyond the city's pale, 

But here—amid the old familiar scenes, where in 
Past years their own life's joys and duties centered* 


112 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


And so—although less beautiful than many of its 
kind; 

Boasting not of artistry in monument or shrine; 

No cause for envy has its tenantry* 

For, folded in the city's close embrace, 

It knows not—loneliness* 


113 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE SONG OF THE WIND 
Wind's east! 

I know by the chill in the air. 

And the song that the chimney sings 
A note of sadness,—a wail of despair— 
That a sense of foreboding brings* 
'Tis a lonesome sound,—and I fain 
Would fail to hear its dismal refrain,— 
“Comes rain—comes rain—comes rain*" 

Wind's west! 

Ah! now there's a different song, 

As down the chimney it sweeps 
With a chorus both loud and strong, 
That time with its melody keeps; 
“Ho! this is the message I bear; 

Away with all worry and care; 

'Tis fair! 'tis fair! 'tis fair!" 


114 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW 

T STOOD with head uncovered, 

* And ga zed in silent surprise, 

At the grand old mountains, towering, 

As it seemed, to the very skies* 

And I thought, if I, only a life time, 

Might dwell 'neath their shadow bold, 

It would fill my soul with rapture, 

Give to me joy untold* 

And e'en as I thought, a stranger, 
Humming a bit of a song, 

Gave a careless glance at my idols, 

As he sauntered the road along* 

Then, shrugging his shoulders, he murmured, 
"What a terrible bore it must be, 

To live in a country so dreary,— 

With nothing but mountains to see*" 


115 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE SHOWER OF THE LEAVES 

A Memory Picture of Concord, Mass. 

October J7, 1903 

B ATHED in the sunshine of an Indian summer's 
day, 

The old historic town of Concord lay. 

Upon its storied highway, famous made 
By precious dust long since in yonder church-yard 
laid, 

The grand old trees, resplendent in their hues of red 
and gold and brown, 

Upon a scene of quiet beauty and content looked 
down; 

While the lazy flowing river's depths hard by, 
Reflected azure tints of an almost cloudless sky. 

Impelled by hearts attune with Nature's gracious 
mood, 

We sauntered on; past village-green that oft had 
wooed 

By memories of stirring scenes long past, 

Our feet to tread its sacred ground; until, at last, 
Enveloped in a haze of golden light, 

We stopped awhile to wonder at the sight: 

And marvelled at a Power, that e'er could bring 
Such riot of gorgeous coloring. 


116 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


Motionless they stood; the oaks in sombre garb; the 
maples all aflame, 

Save as a passing breeze, so light we scarce could tell 
from whence it came, 

Caused here and there, a leaf, in aimless way 
(And seeming loath from parent stem to stray) 

To flutter down and join its comrade hosts that in 
our pathway lay* 

While we, unmindful of the fact that Nature's hand 
A grand finale for the day had planned, 

Our walk renewed; nor noted that across the western 
sky, 

Low hanging clouds in angry mood were scurrying 
by* 


When, suddenly, a gust of wind that gathered force 
as on it sped, 

Sent branches tossing to and fro; while overhead 

A shimmering mass of crimson, gold and brown, 

Like snow-flakes beaten by a wintry blast, came 
whirling down; 

In wild confusion some; and some in ecstasy of glee; 

Now here, now there, and failing their destination to 
foresee, 

The falling leaves a picture far more beautiful por¬ 
trayed, 

Than ever artist's brush to duplicate essayed* 


117 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


The afternoon was drawing close to night; 

And yet we lingered, loath to leave the beauteous 
sight* 

The naked branches wailed their note of discontent, 

As the riotous wind, its fury now well spent, 

Passed on—and left a darkening mass of clouds o'er 
head; 

While underneath our feet, a tapestry of rich design 
was spread* 

Then came the rain—and we, all unprepared, 

Scarce knew which way our steps to tend, but on we 
fared; 

Nor recked of aught that dire discomfort gives, 

For the drenching rain was lost to mind in 
the Shower of the Leaves* 


118 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


EASTER LILIES 

E ASTER lilies—tall and stately, 

Fit to grace the garden of a king; 
Lift your heads—and list the story 
That the herald angels sing* 

Easter lilies—fair and fragrant, 

Filling the air with your delicate perfume 
So did Jesus—scatter blessings 
From the manger to the tomb* 

Easter lilies—pure and stainless 
As the life and all-abiding love 
Of Him—who risen now triumphant, 
Reigns in majesty above* 


119 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


THE INEVITABLE 

I SAW two crones in a grave-yard stop 
Near some time-worn stones to rest; 

And I, much wishing to hear what they said, 
Halted near—and smiled at the zest 
With which they chattered of this grave and that, 
I tried—but failed every word to hear; 

But this—I caught—as I wandered on,— 

“Dead for many a year*” 

And so, thought I, we all shall lie 
(Just where it matters not) 

'Neath crumbling stone; and some old dames 
Will wander near the spot, 

And stooping low to read the name, 

With never a sigh or tear 
Will carelessly, one to the other say,— 

“Dead for many a year.” 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


CHICORY 

W HERE artist hands have fashioned beds of 
quaint or rare design. 

And filled with blooms whose pedigree 
Calls connoisseurs from far and near 
To view the beauties that in them combine,— 

Not here we seek you—flowers of blue; 

Nor yet in banquet halls, where lords and 
Ladies grand make merry at the feast* 

From houses made of glass, and sheltered thus from 
wind and weather, 

Are borne with gentle hands the beauteous blooms 
That grace these tables spread, and add their fra¬ 
grance to the perfumed air; 

Not here we find you—flowers of blue. 

But, rather, in some quiet nook held fast in sunshine's 
warm embrace; 

Where clover-blooms across the way their friendly 
greetings nod, 

And birds, in carols sweet, the livelong day your 
charms discourse. 

And yet, more oft, a country road beside; 

(Ah! what delight to find you thus.) 

Not courting praise by spendthrift ways as butter¬ 
cups and daisies do; 

But modestly, and shy of mien; not grudging space 
to neighbor blooms; but with a glory 
All your own—dear patch of blue. 


121 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


The lily's dignity and grace finds not in you its 
counterpart; 

And round your petals, lingers not the perfume of 
carnation's breath; 

But envy not the charms possessed by these of high 
degree; 

Ye, too, have charms that cheer and bless, though all 
unheralded; 

Save as passing breezes tell in gossip with the bee; 

Or, maybe friendly chat with blue-eyed violets* 

The children of the country-side e'er find in you a 
friend, 

As lavishly and unrestrained your blooms at will 
they cull; 

And many a cottage window, with naught to recom¬ 
mend 

Save the little vase made charming by the gift your 
beauty lends, 

May memories awaken of meadows rich with blue— 
long years ago* 

So scorn to pine for house of glass, 

Or beds of quaint design, 

But be content to minister to Nature's friends afield; 

Who find in every flower, e'en weed, some 

Attribute to please—and homage give,—dear 
“Watcher of the Road*" 

Providence, Rhode Island, July, 1918. 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


DECEMBER 

*~| T HE roses have faded, and gone all too soon 
* Their fragrance, once quaffed from the sweet 
breath of June; 

And the low hanging haze of the late summer-time, 
Has drifted away to a sunnier clime. 

The shivering trees toss their heads to and fro, 

As over the hill-tops the north-wind doth blow; 
While scurrying clouds hide the light of the sun, 
And all Nature tells us, your reign has begun. 

Yet—in never a month of all the year round 
Is there greater rejoicing and joy to be found; 

For the gift of the Christ-child was sent from above 
As a proof of the Father's most bountiful love. 

And sweet bells are telling with wonderful chime, 
The ever new tale of the glad Christmas-time; 
While Peace—as a mantle—seems flung from above, 
To envelop the earth in a garment of love. 

Then welcome December! We hail thee with joy! 
While songs of thanksgiving our tongues shall 
employ; 

Thy days are all radiant and winsome with cheer; 
The gladdest, the sweetest, the best of the year. 


123 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


MOODS 

T HROUGH open casement the sunlight streams; 

Filling the room with a golden glow* 

Upon the rugs in bars of yellow light it lies; 

And over statue, bust and ornament, a roseate hue it 
casts* 

The bindings of my books ne'er looked so beautiful; 
And e'en the old clock's tick seems pulsing with 
melody* 

My portraits—with what caressing air they greet my 
upturned gaze! 

Secrets, they fain would tell, seem trembling upon 
their lips; 

And in their eyes, I see the twinkle of roguery and 
jest* 

How rich the coloring of their drapery! 

How well it suits their ancestral pose and bearing! 

Joy, light and beauty;—I revel in the brightness of 
the morn* 

Closed is my casement window; and through 
Its latticed panes, flooding the room with 
Weird unnaturalness, the moonbeams stray* 

Cold and white, on marble bust and ivory-keys they 
gleam; 

While ghostly shadows, lurking here and there— 
give air of mystery* 


124 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


How loud the old clock's tick!—and what sepulchral 
sound! 

Like spectres grim, my portraits, from out their 
gilded frames, 

No answering look to my entreating gaze return* 

Heavy the air with the perfume from my hyacinths! 

And over all, broods silence—deep—profound* 

With folded hands, I sit—and dream 
my dreams of yesterdays* 


125 


HOMEY POEMS AND OTHERS 


JUST AROUND THE BEND 

L IFE'S pathway is not straight and trim 
As garden pathways go; 

But oft is rough and tortuous 
As we who've walked it know* 

And now and then, a bend appears 
That leads we know not where; 

And sets our minds a-wondering 
What we'll encounter there* 

But faith have we—that brooks no doubt, 
(As on our way we tend) 

That the happiness we long have sought 
Waits—just around the bend* 

The pauper plods his weary way 
And looks for better things; 

And the millionaire's ne'er satisfied 
With what his fortune brings* 

The young, the old, the sad, the gay, 
Not quite content the way they're led; 
For age counts not,—nor temperament,— 
Upon this path we tread* 

And some there are, whose minds are slow 
This fact to comprehend; 

The wise give little thought to what 
Lies—just around the bend* 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


Ah! foolish mortals we,—who miss 
The joys so close at hand; 

Life's day by day sweet melodies 
Ne'er strive to understand* 

In restless mood we journey on, 

And strain our eyes to see 
If but a glimpse we may not catch 
Of that which is to be* 

But vain are all our longings— 

For how'er our steps may tend, 

Fate—bids us bide our time—to know 
What's—just around the bend* 


127 
























































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